


Christmas Lights & Baked Goods

by Loserlovely



Series: So Happy Together [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Carry On Countdown (Simon Snow), Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Light Angst, Like waaaaaaaaay after Wayward Son, M/M, Parenthood, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, baz is Stressed, like just a tiny bit, one great big family of disasters, simon passive aggressively decorates, they have a son and theyre happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:28:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21932233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loserlovely/pseuds/Loserlovely
Summary: It's Christmas Eve, Baz is stressed, they've got a son, and nobody is good at baking. What could go wrong?...For the Christmas Celebration prompt for the Carry On Countdown
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: So Happy Together [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1516628
Comments: 5
Kudos: 79





	Christmas Lights & Baked Goods

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a quick warning: I'm an American and I have actually no idea if they call them Christmas cookies or biscuits in the uk?? So I just went with it. My apologies.

"Oh for fucks sake, Snow, _what_ are you _doing?_ " 

I'm standing in the kitchen, watching my lovely disaster of a husband hang up Christmas lights in our dining room.

No. _Hang up_ is too liberal of a term. He's haphazardly thumb tacking a multicoloured string of lights to various points on the wall like a madman, and he's been at it for the better part of an hour. _Hang up_ doesn't cover this. 

"I'm decorating!" He chimes, a hint of annoyance lingering in his voice. And then he frowns. "Language, Baz."

"We decorated two weeks ago, Snow, we already have lights up."

"So?"

" _So,_ you're going to knock out the electricity." 

"Will not."

"Even if you don't, you _have_ made an atrocity out of perfectly good Christmas lights. This is a house, not a bloody rave."

This earns me a small giggle from the angel that's currently helping me bake biscuits for Christmas, though I doubt he knows what a rave even is. 

Snow and I adopted Liam a little under a year ago from a magickal adoption agency in the US. (Mages are much more lenient about giving up their children over there. How typically American.) He's only four, but he's far more intelligent than he ought to be for his age. A bit short for his age, too, I reckon, with curly hair, dark skin, and big brown eyes. With magic that smells like clean linen and freshly sliced oranges. 

_We love him so much._

I can only hope he loves us too. It must be odd for him—he's young, in a different country, with parents he's only known for ten months. He doesn't even have an accent to match ours. He seems perfectly happy—and we've tried our hardest to make him that way, with a bedroom of his very own, clothes that fit him, and plenty of stuffed animals. His favourite is a moose that he absolutely _needed_ from the shop, which he promptly named Gus.

(Gus is a staple in our household. Crowley forbid we lose sight of where that damned moose is, or else Liam will lose his head.)

(So will Snow.) 

"Well," Snow grumps. "It's not my fault you don't trust me around an oven."

"I took you off biscuit duty because you'd end up trying to eat all the dough and give yourself salmonella. Like last time. Or your wings would get in the way, and I'd trip and give myself a concussion. _Like last time."_

"Wings!" Liam exclaims. He fucking adores Snow's wings. Sometimes he'll sit behind him on the sofa, just to play with them. They're enough to entertain them both for at least an hour. 

Snow smirks. "Thanks, buddy. At least someone appreciates me."

I roll my eyes. "I'll start appreciating you when you quit looking like you're trying to contact aliens via Christmas lights." 

He sticks his tongue out at me. I practically swoon. 

Having a child with him has, in some ways, increased my love for Simon Snow. I adore seeing him play with Liam—he'll pick him up and spin him around, or pretend sword fight with him. Or some days, I'll come home from work to find them both pleasantly passed out on the couch, Peppa Pig still full blast on the telly.

(Peppa's a staple here, too.)

But it's not all happiness and gossamer. Snow's a much different parent than I am. Not better, not worse. Just... _different._

Fine. Maybe a little bit better.

A lot better.

Maybe it's because Snow spends more time around him. I work at Watford—Mitali Bunce offered me a job as the Latin teacher, and I also landed the position of football coach, so I hardly have time to be home. It's a bit of a drive from Watford to where we live, now that we've moved out of London, so it isn't like I can come home every night to my family. Crowley knows it would be lovely if it could, but I can only make the trip on weekends and holidays when school is in session.

(Occasionally, though, Simon will have a late shift at work, and Liam and I will drive to Watford. He'll "help" me grade papers, I'll feed him the sour cherry scones that he loves just as much as his papa, and we'll both snuggle up in my staff dorm room for a good night's rest.)

Other than that, though…

Well. I'm never fucking around, am I? I don't want to be a shit father. Not like mine was. I don't want to parent from a distance. I'll find _some way_ to stay close to my son, even if it means scooping him up and setting him in the corner of my classroom while I teach. 

I shouldn't dwell on that right now, though. I should be focusing on what's happening right in front of me—Liam helping me roll up balls of chocolate chip biscuit dough, instructing me where to put them on the baking pan. Liam, in his Christmas pyjamas and his fuzzy socks, sauce from the spaghetti we had for dinner still smeared on his chin. 

I can't believe how lucky I am. How lucky _we_ are.

After we've successfully gotten the rolls of dough into the oven to bake, and once Snow finally ran out of thumbtacks to assault the wall with, we all retire to the sofa. Snow and I sit side by side watching the news (Crowley, when did I become so old that I actively watch the news?), while Liam scribbles in his colouring book. 

He loves art. He's right brilliant at it, as well. Snow and I make a point to encourage him with his drawings, and we hang up every scribble and stick figure he gifts us with. That's a part of his Christmas gifts this year—among the many (and I do mean _many)_ toys and stuffed animals we got for him, we wrapped a sixty four pack of crayons under the tree, as well as a few colouring books and a pad of construction paper. 

We might have gone a bit mad with the presents, but I can hardly bring myself to be upset about it. It's our first Christmas together as a proper family. I want it to be special for Liam. 

_("He's fucking four, Baz. He won't be able to remember it in, like, three years."_

_"Would you rather us eat aero bars and drink too much eggnog while marathoning the Doctor like we normally do?"_

_"That sounds nice, actually. We'll just drink the eggnog virgin, yeah?"_

_"Not on my watch, Snow.")_

It's warm in the house, and the lights from Snow and the tree are flooding the room in a soft, colourful glow. Liam is softly humming into his book, scribbling with a green crayon, drawing what I assume is a tree. It's not long, though, before he starts (loudly) snoring. Snow's not far behind—his head is lulling to the side, falling onto my shoulder. I could fall asleep right here as well, warm and listening to the steady sound of Snow's breathing…

Except I smell something decidedly burnt.

"The biscuits!" I say, jolting fully awake. 

"Wha' ?" Simon mumbles, rubbing his eyes. Then his eyes widen, and he jumps up with me and runs into the kitchen.

The damage isn't as bad as it could be. The oven didn't catch fire, and the smoke detectors didn't go off, but the biscuits are a lost cause. They're so charred that they wont even come off the parchment paper I placed on the pan. 

"Well done," Snow says, trying a taste of the burnt biscuits. "No, really. They're _well done._ Get it?" 

I sneer at the shit eating grin he gives me and shake my head. Snow's been on a dad joke kick lately— _"I'm a dad now, aren't I?"—_ and now is really not the time. 

We've just burnt the biscuits. On Christmas eve. 

"Hey, I've got an idea—" Snow starts.

"Really? Did it hurt?" 

"Oi! I was just about to suggest that we just, like, carry Liam off to bed? It's late anyway, he's not gonna be concerned about leaving anything for Father Christmas."

I sigh, because he's right. It _is_ late, and I'm still a bit sleepy from the kip we almost got to enjoy. Liam would never know about "Father Christmas" not getting his dessert.

"Alright," I say. "You clean this up while I get him ready?"

Snow puts his arms around my shoulders for a second, steps on his tiptoes, and presses a kiss into my lips. "Sounds good to me."

I make my way out into the sitting room to scoop Liam off the sofa where he'd been nestled in a pile of blankets, and carry him upstairs to bed. He doesn't stir as I tuck him in, snuggling Gus the moose close to his chest and switching on the night light. 

I've just changed into my nightshirt when Snow comes barreling into our room, suddenly tackling me into the bed with a kiss. 

(He's wearing boxers with little Christmas trees on them, the handsome fuck). 

(Oh Merlin, when did he take off his shirt and trousers? I bet he hasn't put them away. He's still a bloody heathen, after all these years.)

A surprised noise escapes me, but I don't make a move to pull my lips away from his. I've had almost seven years of kissing Simon Snow, and I've never complained about his kisses. I likely never will. 

We have a good proper snog for Crowley knows how long, him on top of me, running his fingers through my hair and up my shirt, before he pulls away to catch a breath.

"What was that?" I ask, breathless.

I'm still lying on my back, but Snow's sat upright, both his legs on either side of mine so he's straddling me on the mattress. He smirks devilishly and points up.

There's a bundle of mistletoe hanging right above our bed.

"You're a fucking idiot," I pull him by his shoulders, so hes close enough to kiss again. And then I do. Kiss him, that is.

"You love me." 

"Maybe."

"I love _you,"_ he murmurs against my lips.. 

I smile as he rolls off of me and settles himself underneath the covers.

"I should hope so. We've been married for, what, four years?"

Snow rolls his eyes. "Night, darling." 

"Goodnight, _love._ "

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas if you're celebrating, motherfuckers.


End file.
